


monuments of history

by owilde



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, Diana is an art curator and a nerd, F/M, First Meetings, Some History, Some Humor, Steve is a pilot who can't catch a break, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, from Steve's side that is, implied future relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 19:26:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12115596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: The Sopwith ½ Strutter was hanging from the room on delicate looking wires, caught mid-air as if it were still in flight, circling above the city of Verdun. Chips of the right wing were missing, and there was a hole on the left side, near the pilot's seat – but overall, it had survived through time and hardship remarkably well."It's beautiful, isn't it?" A voice asked from behind him, and Steve turned his head to look.





	monuments of history

**Author's Note:**

> these two make me, how you say...... cry uncontrollably

Steve didn't even want to go, not really. He wasn't one for culture – or if he was, it was culture in the form of watching re-runs of old TV shows from his crappy 30" screen. Preferably in pyjamas, with a box of fresh pizza next to him.

But Mike had told him this was a special case – some sort of an old aviation exhibition. He'd been excited about it, and Steve hadn't had the heart to interrupt his babbling until they'd started to reach London and had to get on with the landing preparations. He'd googled the show once he'd gotten back to his apartment, that night.

It was held in the Whitechapel gallery, near round where Steve lived, so he didn't even have the excuse of not wanting to travel further than 10 miles at most. The website promised  _authentic pieces of aerial technology and war machinery_ , with some of them all the way from World War One. Steve didn't know how in the world they'd gotten their hands on any of the materials – the real diamond of the show was a mostly intact Sopwith 1½ Strutter, collected from the Battle of Verdun, which seemed damn near impossible.

So, no, Steve didn't even want to go. It was a Thursday night, and his only free evening before he'd leave for Paris late Friday. He could think of a million things he'd rather be doing than going to an art gallery, and all on his own on top of that. But Mike would be disappointed if he didn't go. And Steve was too good of a friend to let him down like that.

The entrance fee of 12£ seemed kind of ridiculous, but Steve paid it nonetheless. The man selling the tickets by the counter glanced at the old aviator jacket Steve had put on, and smiled sardonically.

"Nice jacket," he said as he handed Steve his ticket. "Did you wear it for the irony?"

Steve had worn it because the other option had been a suit jacket, and he didn't want to be overdressed. "Yeah," he said, giving the man a tight-lipped smile. "For the irony."

Inside the gallery, all the lights had been dimmed to their minimum. The main pieces were illuminated by bright spotlights. Steve approached the first one – a piece of the end tail of Albatros, covered in old remnants of smoke and broken off in places. He nearly reached out to touch it, before noticing the sign next to the tail explicitly forbidding doing so.

There was another sign, proclaiming the history of the plane and where it had been used – Bloody April, 1917. Steve hummed to himself and carried on, wandering from one piece to another, occasionally pausing to read the signs.

Steve found, contrary to his initial reluctance, that he was genuinely enjoying himself. The atmosphere inside the gallery felt tangible. It wasn't too crowded, but there were still more people than Steve would've expected from an aviation exhibition on a Thursday night.

It took him over an hour of wandering around before he reached the main star of the show. The Sopwith ½ Strutter was hanging from the room on delicate looking wires, caught mid-air as if it were still in flight, circling above the city of Verdun. Chips of the right wing were missing, and there was a hole on the left side, near the pilot's seat – but overall, it had survived through time and hardship remarkably well.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" A voice asked from behind him, and Steve turned his head to look.

A woman was standing slightly to his left. She was only a little bit shorter than him, and wearing a crimson red dress with a black blazer on top. Her hair was up in a ponytail, with no strands or wisps of hair having fallen out. She was smiling at him, with a twinkle in her eye, her arms crossed in a nonchalant way.

"Yeah," Steve managed to say. "Yeah, it's—it's really… beautiful."

The woman stepped closer so that they were standing side by side, and turned her gaze from Steve to the plane.

"They retrieved it from France after the battle," she told him. She had a slight accent that Steve couldn't place – Greek, maybe. "The British wanted it for themselves, to repair it and use it again soon. It was brought across the canal, but in the end, nobody wanted to fix it – it was easier to make new, better planes. The Strutter was left to dust in a warehouse somewhere, and there it was until someone found it and thought to preserve it." She glanced at him with a smile. "And here it is, now."

Steve nodded slowly, eyes flickering between the plane and the woman. "Are you part of the exhibition, or something?" He asked.

"I am not a plane," the woman said teasingly. Her eyes crinkled.

"No, I meant—" Steve flustered. "I meant, are you a guide here?"

She nodded. "My name's Diana Prince. I was assigned to this exhibition early October."

"Steve Trevor," Steve said, extending his hand – Diana shook it with a polite and warm smile.

"What brings you here, Steve?" She asked. People were milling about around them, pointing at the plane and whispering amongst themselves.

Steve shrugged. "My friend recommended this place. He's a big, uhm, aviation fan."

"I suppose you are too, since you are here and wearing that jacket," Diana pointed out. She reached out to touch the wool inside the collar, before withdrawing her hand. Steve's breath hitched. "Is it an original?"

Steve couldn't remember whether his jacket was an original or not, or even where he'd bought it from or when. He stumbled to answer. "It's, uh, I don't think it is? I mean, it might be. I'm a big fan of second-hand stores."

Diana hummed appreciatively. "Me too," she said. "I like the feeling of something worn and old. There's always a history to things that aren't bought as new. It's fun to think of where a certain pair of boots might've come from." She raised her right foot to indicate her shoes. "These, for example, come from China. I brought them from a woman who immigrated in the late 1980's, and brought these shoes with her." She smiled. "I think it's fascinating."

Steve swallowed air.  _Get a grip_ , he heard Sameer say in his head.  _It is just an exhibition tour guide you are talking to_. But Steve couldn't help the way his heart was stammering in his chest, of the flutter of nerves on his skin. Diana felt like she belonged here, in the gallery, among all the other pieces of history and art.

"Are you… have you studied history?" Steve asked. He stuffed his hands in his pockets in order to look more calm and collected – though he suspected he was failing miserably.

"I did my bachelor's in art history," Diana told him, "and majored in exhibition studies and curation. All my friends told me I'm an idiot for not studying something that will guarantee me a job, but here I am."

"Here you are," Steve repeated. He smiled a little. "I did some aviation courses and whatnot, some flight schools. Dad told me I'm an idiot for wasting all that money. But here I am."

"You're a pilot?" Diana asked. She seemed genuinely curious.

"Yep," Steve confirmed. "Haven't been one for long, but so far so good." He eyed the Strutter. "I'd kill to fly one of those." He turned to stare at his shoes, shuffling a little. "I thought I'd find this exhibition boring, since all I do is be around planes, you know? But it's interesting."

Diana smiled. "All I've done for the past ten years has been to study art history and then work as a curator in art and history exhibitions. But it's never gotten boring. I think that when you truly love something, you will not ever find it boring. Annoying, perhaps, or tiresome – but not boring."

"I guess so. I don't know how much I love flying, though," Steve said. He lifted his eyes – Diana was staring at him. "What?"

"I find it curious that a pilot comes to see an aviation exhibition wearing an old aviator jacket, and then claims that he does not know whether he loves flying or not," Diana said, amused. "Perhaps you won't realize how much you love it until it's gone."

"I don't think I'll be a pilot forever," Steve admitted. "I didn't really think too much about what I was getting myself into when I started, but now… it's fun, but I won't be flying around when I'm fifty. I think I'll have to think of something else to do once I've had enough."

"Perhaps something to do with history," Diana suggested. "You seem interested in it, anyhow. I could picture you as a history teacher."

Steve laughed. "Yeah, maybe. We'll see what happens. All the world's a stage, and so on."

"I don't think we are all mere players," Diana said thoughtfully. "That is a very bleak way to look at life. Humanity is so much more than that. We are capable of incredible things – and of horrible destruction."

"And it's the remnants of that horrible destruction where we stand now," Steve finished. "And I guess in some years, some new Steve and Diana will be standing in a museum of the destruction we've caused."

"It's not unlikely," Diana agreed. She paused for a second, then reached for something from the pocket of her blazer. She pulled out a card. "Do you happen to have a pen?"

Steve did. He handed it over to her, and she wrote something on the back of the card before handing both it and the pen to Steve.

"I have work to do," she said, sounding apologetic. "But I'll see you around, Steve Trevor."

With one final smile, she disappeared into the back of the gallery.

Steve glanced at the card in his hands. On one side, it read in a nice, printed font:

' _Diana Prince – curator and art director, Cambridge University – for business inquiries, please call +44 3928401 or e-mail at dianaprince@cam.uni.com'_

He turned it around. In neat handwriting, the other side said:  _for personal inquiries, please call +04827723 – XO, Diana_

He pocketed the card with a smile.


End file.
